


you take the breath right out of me

by kivancalcite



Series: how to dream in black and white [2]
Category: Adventures of Tintin (2011), Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Abduction, Abusive Relationships, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Repressed, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury, Inspired by Music, Isolation, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Pain, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Past Torture, Past Violence, Pederasty, Possessive Behavior, Psychological Trauma, References to Drugs, Sequel, Sick Character, Sleep, Unconsciousness, Vomiting, as usual sakharine is fantastic at not respecting boundaries whatsoever, forced compliance via drugging, haddock and sakharine are extremely bitter exes, in a creepily intimate way, several indications are made, super abusive on sakharine's part of course, very clearly implied, very heavily implied sakharine is an absolutely awful human being
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29193537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kivancalcite/pseuds/kivancalcite
Summary: Following on from 'silly boys, no one needs to hear your words', after an...unfortunate stint waking up in some sort of hospital, Tintin is now enduring time back on the Karaboudjan, sick and drugged and the subject of Sakharine's usual possessive nature, as he becomes familiar with one of his more suppressed emotions: fear. Alone and with a steadily growing idea of what may have happened to his little white dog and alcoholic sailor friend before his abduction, he must confront the terrifying notions that have plagued his long career as a young reporter; confined more or less to a ship's quarters and now to a body coerced into compliance via his enemies' usual path of medical intervention.
Relationships: Ivan Ivanovitch Sakharine/Tintin
Series: how to dream in black and white [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2143344
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	1. drifting thoughts of a fevered mind

Tintin unwarily bolted upright in bed, the sheets damp with his sweat. Another night remembering what Sakharine had said about the captain and Snowy, another night where _that_ was interrupted by groans of pain from the ache of his healing injuries as he sat far too quickly upright. He was disinclined to believe him though, the reporter wasn’t like that, though the aristocrat was far too like that to not have that done. He was probably considering just how stubborn Haddock and Snowy were instead, always clinging on just to spite or help others. But right now, he was reeling from a sleepless night aboard a ship, head throbbing with the room blanketed in darkness except for the moonlight that shafted in from the only available porthole.

He was fine on ships in general, but the ache of his whole body compounded by the rolling motion over the waves and whatever cocktail of drugs he’d been administered to keep him subdued was bringing on that same old nausea again (and frankly sick and feverish which really explained him waking up covered in sweat). His head felt foggy and all he could taste was nausea in his mouth, grimacing that all he could sense was pain and sickness and darkness.

The only clothes he had were thin pyjamas, even though he was feeling remarkably warm in them despite his shivering. He didn’t doubt Sakharine had wealthy underground associations and so though he wasn’t sure just what kind of hospital he’d been in and the fact that he’d probably been given experimental drugs for…not so great purposes was now beginning to feel like the least of his worries.

It was enough to just sit up, his body stiff and his limbs heavy against the sheets. His fingers dug into them and he shut his eyes, only feeling his own shaky breathing in the dark and what felt like his heartbeat pounding inside his own head. Everything felt like it was swimming and he couldn’t _breathe_ \---no, don’t, don’t say that. Don’t… _remember_. He could tell he was scared but it was hardly something to admit to himself. Sure, he’d had plenty enough to be scared about but it was when he was alone that these thoughts would blossom to the surface.

Nonetheless though, when did he ever let that stop him? He didn’t know the extent of why he was here, although certain unsavoury ideas had come to mind which he’d pushed aside before he spiralled down in a mess of panic and a drug-induced haze. Nothing could get him to contemplate that but the other mysteries at hand – he had that youthful look, one of innocence that people would be either be compelled to kill or exploit and…it didn’t bear to think about any further.

He knew Sakharine was unpredictable, changing direction without anyone realising because it already seemed in his nature. It seemed a test of the captain’s faith as well as making sure he got away with the scrolls when the man shoved him and Snowy in the water, of which the captain predictably dove in after him. Perhaps he’d got bored of Haddock – several signs in their interactions indicated a bitterness, anger and toxicity reminiscent of an ex-relationship which was very much more in the aristocrat’s favour if certain traits and previous events were to be observed.

Tintin therefore felt the pang of his treatment as a pawn in the midst of the game that Sakharine had been playing with the captain, more or less a plaything now than anything else. But if the man already had the scrolls, why was he here? Was there something so desirable about him---again he was descending into territory that ultimately repulsive to think about. He’d got in this man’s way enough, why didn’t he just kill him in a more straightforward manner like before and instead leave in the captain’s ship with his rival’s traitorous crew and the scrolls? But he would always find a way to gain more, regardless of what that entailed.

He wished he could think more of the implications of such an unpredictable wealthy aristocrat kidnapping a young and perhaps considerably infamous reporter, but there was already a number of factors that just made him feel physically ill to prevent him from going any further about it.

He tried to swivel himself around, move the sheets out of the way, but he felt weighed down to the bed, shivering in a sweaty mess of a bed that appeared a little more comfortable than the beds presumably on a sailing ship, which begged the question of why he was having this preferential treatment from a ruthless wealthy crime lord who wanted him dead…however long ago that was. Of course, he knew plenty enough to not let him run free and sober in this environment, but it really rubbed the reporter the wrong way for this to be simultaneously the case.

It took a great effort to try again, a harsh cry escaping his throat in the process and he froze, shaking and biting his tongue to hope he couldn’t be heard. There was the usual splash of the waves against the hull of the boat, creaking wood that strained amidst its motion in the water and faint footsteps and voices possibly nearby against the floorboards. He could taste the metallic flavour of blood, wincing as it stung in his mouth before he forced himself to shift around, forced his own body to comply to his own demands. He felt drunk, fumbling with the sheets before one foot touched damp, cold wood. Even in his feverish state, he felt cool air sink more into his muscles, brushing against the thin material of his pyjamas and swallowed, before putting his other foot down on the floor.

Putting weight on his feet was a whole different thing, as he started to feel more sway of the ship under them. This was a somewhat risky move he was doing, but his restless body and need to know was screaming at him to properly pull himself away from the bed. He knew his door would be locked, so he wasn’t incredibly concerned about getting caught, nonetheless holding his breath for any signs of movement outside his door.

The night air outside seemed still and Tintin regarded that as an eerie absence, even with the waves splashing up the side of the ship and the natural creaks of it in motion. He hesitated standing up, feeling the drugs circulating in his system compel him to lie down, to succumb even more to gravity’s influence. He shifted forward, breathing heavily before he gently slid to the floor. The moonlight felt brighter and sharper from this angle, and there was a strange semblance of solace he found from that as well as catching a glimpse of the clearer, starry sky outside of this place.

He wanted to shake his head. He could usually dream and remain positive, trying to keep an eye on the path ahead. He felt so starved of the outside world that even though it seemed ridiculous, at least he could have refuge in that. Perhaps he felt hypnotised enough to find a way over to the porthole, but his mind seemed vaguely distracted as he managed to use the side of the bed to swivel round and push himself forward onto his knees, the sound of footsteps louder near his door. Even as his brain felt thick with fog, that thud on wood was very evident, more so than the faint footsteps he thought he could hear on a distant part of the ship. His body seemed to freeze almost on instinct.

They stopped nearby, not sounding terribly heavy. Tintin guessed Sakharine wouldn’t want his lackeys generally near him, especially regarding his possessive nature, which made him shiver at what could’ve happened in the times he’d been drifting in and out of consciousness. He vaguely remembered the man touching his hand almost so tenderly, drifting a hand up his arm and up across his forehead and hair when he was rendered effectively paralytic in the hospital. His thoughts kept coming down to that, and in his effort to slowly convince his body to get up a leg at a time as he leaned heavily against the bed, a sudden motion of the ship against a wave finally broke something inside of him, stomach lurching against the weight of it all.

He caught some words at the last minute though, faint as what Sakharine was saying to himself as he usually did when he wasn’t berating the crew.

“Damn idiots, I don’t even know how much I have to pay them…” Tintin heard, that sour mood unsurprisingly present almost always in his voice, “…decent job, curse Haddock and his crew, the lot of them. The things I have to do…”

He could always sense some form of disgust, which was considerably unsurprising knowing just how much vindication this man desired. Never short on complaints, the privilege was very much on display as the echo of the captain’s words on his rival, “the sour-faced man with the sugary name”, was clear in his mind even if he didn’t necessarily make a physical appearance. Despite his unpredictability, that part of him was very much ensured and very evident to read into his whole character.

Tintin felt bile rise up in his sore throat, pressing heavier against the bed as he managed to stumble to his feet. His body continued to betray him and it terrified him of how isolated and helpless this made him feel, helpless inside his own body that felt more like a puppet than anything else. He did not have the energy nor function to suppress what was about to happen because of knowing that the man was right outside his door, never minding the less dignified position he had already been subjected to.

It felt more like a wet cough at first, heart beating painfully in his feverish, panicked state as he heard the scrape of the wooden door just a bit in front of him. His surroundings seem to sway and blur more than usual, his body finally deciding it had exerted enough of an effort forcing himself out of bed. He felt himself uncontrollably collapse, falling just short of the wooden edge of the bed and almost straight onto the floor as the vile taste of liquid spilt from his mouth and spattered on the floor. He could taste and smell the acidity of such a substance, but it was nothing compared to the metal on metal in the lock of the door before it swung open, warm light spilling into the room with an extremely familiar silhouetted figure standing in the doorway.

He could feel how he might have been perceived, a shivering, sick wreck curled on a ship’s floorboards, a puddle of vomit inches from his face. The true terror of course, though, came from what, and how, he should’ve expected Sakharine to say next, light eerily reflecting off of his glasses from the light in the corridor.

“Oh, Tintin,” he seemed to sigh, more disappointed, and far too soft for that matter, than anything else, “what on earth did you decide to do that for?”


	2. cruel intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sakharine manages to drag the poor reporter back to bed, and Tintin simply wants to disassociate from what seems far too apparent are the clear intentions of an aristocrat still bent at getting what he wants.

He felt himself freeze, blood throbbing and rushing in his head. Was he breathing? Seemed a strange response, but he’d usually push his instinct to feel fear down inside him. He should’ve expected that response, but he sure didn’t want it. But this man was not used to spontaneous outbursts around him, not usually – that was reserved for grown men like his lackeys, for the captain, for any man that ended up pissing him off, to put it bluntly.

Sakharine’s approach was more…gentle, for a lack of a better word, around him. If it ever escalated to a level of intense emotion, the wealthy aristocrat remained unsettlingly polite and calm towards him despite his firm, steadfast approach, even away from the peering, intruding eyes of the public. Of course, he had no doubt that Sakharine wouldn’t make an exception for a teenager such as himself since he was in the way, but perhaps Tintin was wrong in his judgement that he didn’t have his eye on the boy in a certain fashion ever since he bumped into him at the marketplace.

He wanted to speak, but his body was far too heavy enough and the same sort of footsteps he felt like he heard too many times had stopped right near him and there was a recognisably weathered hand on his shoulder that he could feel far too easily in the thin material of the pyjamas he was wearing---

\--- _the suffocating sensation of the water in his lungs and the panic in his eyes and racing heart_ \---

\--- _blearily waking up in a strange hospital with unfamiliar drugs running through his veins and disinfectant in the air with such a villainous man running his hands up his arm_ _with alarming softness_ \---

\---he felt it again and even if he didn’t have strange drugs running through his system, he felt like he wouldn’t lash out, frozen by such a violating touch from a man hell bent on taking what was his whatever the cost and having nothing but greed and vengeance running through his bloodline. He felt like he didn’t belong in this body, looking at someone who was a shadow of himself or simply just a sick child who felt no energy but to curl up away from it all, away from such a man that was disconcertingly careful around him to the point of possession.

 _Let this all be a dream_ \---

“Tintin, I said,” Sakharine broke through his scared thoughts with his usually calm, affable tone with a remarkable level of disappointment in it that you’d use to punish a child with, “I said whatever you’ve been trying to do, you’re only just making it _worse_.”

This approach and that voice he was taking only stung, stung him in the deepest parts of himself even more so than if Sakharine was to take a more typically violent approach. Tintin was used to brutality in his line of work, having learnt to fight off people who wanted him out of the way when he was getting too nosy. He’d expected it and this had remained no exception…to a point. He knew enemies he’d made would’ve wanted more than just a simple death for him considering things, but with Sakharine…his desire towards him came with a non-violent mindset. He wasn’t just to be rough with and disposed of accordingly. It made him very cold and sick to think of it, a jarring combination of desire and gentleness with cruelty and evil that his mind refused to wrap around.

“Well, I don’t expect you to be able to respond in your state, it only makes sense,” the man continued, registering his lack of action and movement with a dismissive, almost passive-aggressive tone as if it was Tintin’s fault he was in this position to begin with, “and what also makes sense is you staying in bed, because nothing will come of it if you get out of it.”

Tintin felt a tug on his left arm, soft but firm and suffocating and inside it made him want to scream, flinch, move away but the number of factors he felt that allowed him to just be pulled back towards the bed was too strong. The compliance in his body was just enough for him to be lifted off the floor and onto the mess of sheets on the bed, no energy to resist but plenty of focus on trying to ignore the grip on his arm. He was more or less staring past the man now in front of him, letting the sedating effect of the drugs pull him out of this scenario as it happened, despite how helpless it made him feel.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that Sakharine was the one to be manhandling him like this. Sure, he usually got someone like Allan to do this since he was more built for it and it was more in his character, he presumed. Him and the others were the ones, after all, to kidnap him right on his doorstep to be brought on the ship, but he supposed the aristocrat had developed more of an interest in him to not want anyone else’s hands on him but his. Being more able to see him again by force obviously made that possible, and it only made Tintin feel worse thinking of the way he might have been being looked at, as if he was just a possession to understand in his own twisted way than an actual person.

He felt like he would’ve preferred it. It didn’t help that his hands were surprisingly warm, nonetheless feeling like they burnt into his skin enough to leave a mark. It was hard to tell if the other man noticed him trying to blank him, hoping the drugs would make it less obvious that he was trying to disassociate himself from this situation. He felt like his body was moving of its own accord, turning around to lie down and pretending he didn’t notice both of Sakharine’s hands on his arms now, drifting in the same unsettlingly tender fashion up to his shoulders and with no resistance, be the one to press him back against the pillow.

It was perhaps more demeaning as the sheets were brought back up against his shoulders as if he was simply a child, which disturbed Tintin more than anything else. Especially since the aristocrat’s hands lingered on his arms, drifting down to untangle the mess of sheets near his feet, dangerously close to bare skin near his hip due to the pyjama shirt having ridden up slightly which he didn’t bother to sort out. He simultaneously did the same thing on the way back up, and the reporter still refused to look, that nauseous pit in his stomach making him thinking of how he was being stared at and where Sakharine’s eyes were. It was unfortunate just how crystal clear it was that he wouldn’t put a lot of things past this man, knowing him. 

He was a teenager, of course, but the dangerous adventures he’d been on, cases he’d solved and people he’d had to physically fight would rival anything the average teenager had done, and it was this position in his life that made him feel the sickest to his stomach and demeaned as a person. He had enough problems having people taking him seriously, and whilst he had plenty of connections and enough of a reputation otherwise, it still often bothered him that that wasn’t always the case.

“Don’t you think that’s better?” he heard Sakharine patronisingly remark, and for a moment Tintin forgot to blank him out and shifted his head so he was in his eyeline, “Though perhaps, in retrospect, your interference in these affairs is a lot more _fun_ than I anticipated. Just don’t expect to be able to do any more. I already have everything else I _want_.”

That expression with his eyebrows raised and cruel broad grin that settled on his face was never not one to haunt Tintin, considering the theme of him presenting himself as the same old manipulative and powerful aristocrat he was despite any of his appearances as an affable gentleman with an ability to genuinely engage in friendly negotiations and conversation. It only served Sakharine more the moment Tintin rejected his offers, proving he’d get what he wanted eventually. It made the reporter feel the one thing he always hated the most: helplessness, more than anything else.

He seemed to relish the idea though, of his eyes blink a little more heavily, forcing them to remain closed. He had a persistent desire for him to be dreaming, perhaps a way for him to step outside of himself and deal with things that way. But the aristocrat had other ideas, sensing that the reporter wasn’t registering him the way he wanted him to.

There was this warm, weathered hand again, this time on his neck, under his jaw, and it was enough to startle Tintin somewhat, eyes wide against the fogginess of his own mind and the heaviness of his eyes. Annoyance seemed to set in the other man’s eyes and twitched in the corners of his mouth and the reporter could feel more of an effort in his breathing as panic rose and held itself as a weight in his chest in response. He felt fingers trace against muscle, a pulse beating underneath the skin of his neck, and he wanted nothing more right now to pretend this wasn’t happening.

Sakharine leaned forward, close enough that the reporter could vividly feel his warm breath on the side of his face. “As much as I desire your lack of interference and more _compliance_ in this way,” he remarked venomously, still all too disturbingly serene and sadistic in expression with his teeth very much on display, his thumb now tracing the outline of his bottom lip and his eyes glanced downwards, “perhaps I’m not making myself clear enough. I really don’t have everything I want, _not yet, anyway_.”


End file.
